


Frail

by ViciousInnocence



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Canon-Typical Mental Health Issues, M/M, Mac and Dennis move to the suburbs, MacDennis - Freeform, Mental Domestic Abuse, Monthly Dinners, and not sweet, very short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 22:50:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5946232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViciousInnocence/pseuds/ViciousInnocence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their monthly dinner isn't an option or an escape; it's routine.</p><p>(Demi-vignette of Mac and Dennis leaving for their monthly dinner during their time in the suburbs.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frail

To sit at home would be to acknowledge how they've broken. This dinner is a loving façade, to their internal perspectives and otherwise. Necessary, to convince themselves against their will; that they’re ok. Nothing more, nothing less; just a base level of human existence. To look healthy and force a smile are simple talents. But as they've learned, false grins and feigned happiness are heavy lies. It pains them deeply to fake it when all they see is coloured black and red.

Dennis meets Mac at the foot of the stairs.

“What do you think?” he says. His voice is robotic, devoid of any thought or meaning. There’s no reason it shouldn’t be. Escaping the house isn’t fun or rare, it’s just part of existing. They’ll always return to it. The house, the car, their jobs; monotony. His fine clothes are a part of the permanent charade.

Mac’s face translates nothing and he doesn’t speak. He looks at Dennis with the hollow eyes of a ghost. Dennis knows Mac’s hand is cupping his jaw in a way he could describe as gentle. But he only exists in a void, in the frozen state of a k-hole. Like he’s watching his world; peering up out of a deep pit. Waiting for something to electrocute him like live wire and bring him roaring back into existence.

Mac’s fingers trace over the other’s features, across skin in a form of absent distraction. Dennis’ dull familiar face is old and worn, his imperfections of age barely concealed with makeup.

Mac hates it.

He places his thick palm down onto Dennis’ face. The latter’s head is pushed back automatically with the hard force exerted by Mac’s clumsy hand, dragging South and pulling away.

The thick brow pencil is smudged into Dennis' eyelids, darkening his aged crows-feet. Flecks of mascara stick to the pale foundation on his cheekbones, now covered over with black eyeliner, leaking out like an oil spill from his lower lid. The imperceptible colouring of his lips, now obvious, as his chin is stained messily in rose pink. If he’d worn red, his mouth could have been bleeding.

“Perfect.”

Mac tells him, describing the faintest hint of his own empty satisfaction, as he can see Dennis screaming with ferocity behind dead blue eyes.

They climb into the car; Dennis withers at the wheel as he slams the metal door shut. He melds into the driving seat, into the uncomfortable hole shaped by his body. To sit and reminisce, of wasting away the same muscles and numbing his brain amongst the stinking pollution of traffic. The car is a prison cell, but lately, as the weeks drag on, Dennis likens it to his grave.

They sit for a few dragging minutes of silence, staring at the pristine white house from their large range rover.

Mac and Dennis pray: to see it all _burn_.

 


End file.
